The Tennyson Poem
by madame.alexandra
Summary: Even after she's essentially found her something permanent, there are some doubts Ziva cannot quite let go of. She seeks Gibbs' advice on whether or not it really is better to love and lose than to never love at all. In other words, Tony wants kids; Ziva can't shake her uncertainty. Established (married) Tiva. Gibbs/Ziva (father/daughter).


_A/N: I've had this in my head for a good while now. The Ziva/Gibbs relationship is hands-down my absolute favorite on the show, and I think this discusses something that Ziva would for sure struggle with, even after quite a long time of safety and security. There is no specific timeline, except that it's set a bit after season 10 (and by a bit, I'd say about four or five years?) and it's established Tiva. _

* * *

_I hold it true, whate'er befall;_  
_I feel it when I sorrow most;_  
_'Tis better to have loved and lost_  
_Than never to have loved at all_

_-Alfred, Lord Tennyson/ In Memoriam A.H.H [1849]_

* * *

The basement of Leroy Jethro Gibbs had long been a place of counsel and refuge for those who sought a hardened and experienced, yet fiercely compassionate, silent brand of guidance. Gibbs himself was so used to unscheduled, late night visits after hard cases or difficult days that he didn't even look up when he heard his stairs creak; he simply waited.

He knew from the short pause on the landing and the graceful lightness of step on the stairs who it was, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he had been expecting this. He didn't know what was bothering Agent DiNozzo, but the week had been filled with late nights and a subdued, introspective silence from the desk next to his, and he knew it was a matter of time before she came to him—with whatever it was.

He waited until she stepped out from the shadows and crossed her arms, and only then did he look over at her, giving her a thoughtful, acknowledging glance before he looked back to the blueprints he was sketching for McGee's son's tree house.

"Ziva," he greeted gruffly.

She tilted her head.

"Will you ever lock your door, Gibbs?" she asked mildly.

He shrugged his shoulders, shaking his head a little, and studied a measurement through the reading glasses perched on his nose.

"Nope," he answered. But then he paused, and amended his statement— "Only when the kid's here."

She knew he was talking about McGee's boy, but her heart skipped a beat—because it felt like he _knew_ why she was standing in his basement, and that wouldn't be all too surprising, because Gibbs always _knew_.

She watched him sketch strategically with his pencil for a moment, and then he leaned back in his chair and tossed the pencil onto the blueprint, turning his head slowly towards her and giving her his signature stoic, soul-searching glare.

"Ziva," he prompted firmly. "You got someone to go home to," he reminded her.

As if he were asking her why she'd _ever_ be here when she could be with her someone. Because if he still had his someone, he wouldn't work like he did, and so she shouldn't be taking it for granted. And she _didn't—she_ didn't for a moment take what she had been given for granted.

"Yes," Ziva answered cautiously. "Yes, I was just—"

"Working," supplied Gibbs bluntly.

He was used to using the excuse himself.

"Yes," she said again, inclining her head—her words seemed to be failing her, and she kept lamely repeating what she had already said.

"Got lost on your way home?"

"I have been—struggling," Ziva began. "I have—I need to," she paused, "bend your ear on something, Gibbs," again, a moment of hesitation: "Jethro."

He smiled slightly, remembering a time when she would have butchered the idiom. Not so anymore; she hardly ever failed now. She was at home here, stable and secure—and in fact, it had been a long time since she stood in his basement like this. Hell—maybe it had been since she asked him to walk her down the aisle.

Gibbs reached for the pencil and drew it along an outline, giving her a moment. He looked back at her and tapped the eraser against the blue prints.

"What's on your mind?" he asked.

Her eyes went to the tree house he was drawing. She shrugged in defeat.

"Kids," she admitted honestly. "Tony wants to have kids."

Gibbs nodded. It seemed like a natural progression of things. He studied her a moment.

"You don't?"

"It is not that I do not—" she broke off. "I am afraid I did not handle his broaching the subject _well_," she revealed, switching gears. "And I have been—avoiding him."

"You live with him."

"You see my predicament," she joked dryly.

Gibbs smirked.

"That why you've been puttin' in overtime?" he asked.

Ziva looked sheepish.

"I know it is a poor way to handle this," she muttered. She lifted her hands up, held them near her face. "But it has been easier, while I try to," she moved her hands as if grabbing her hair, "while I try to get my head in order about—_kids_."

Gibbs lifted his shoulders mildly.

"Ah," he said, placating her. "Two of you haven't been married long. You got time," he told her simply.

There really was no need to rush things—to feel pressured. It was better if there were no reservations when it was time to make that decision.

She moved her head earnestly.

"We are not that young," she murmured. "Not anymore. Perhaps I am, but Tony," she sighed. "Tony does not want to be senile when…these kids, these hypothetical kids…when they are grown." Ziva stepped closer, and, as if stalling the conversation, went on: "May I ask," she hesitated, uncertain. "How long was it for you, and Shannon?"

Gibbs smirked softly, an old, raw pain flaring briefly in his eyes. She saw it even in the dim lighting of the basement, and she cringed with all her heart, sorry to have brought it up—but she needed to know; she needed Gibbs to talk her through this. She counted on him.

"'Bout a year and a half," he answered gruffly. "Wanted to wait, get a better financial start, but," he shrugged. "It happened."

It had _happened._ And they had been worried and a little scared, because he was set to deploy for sniper training and then an exercise mission in the desert, and they knew he'd be gone when the baby was born, but they had been happy, too—when you were that young, and that madly in love, there was no time to wish you'd stuck to the plan. Gibbs swallowed down the heartache, and narrowed his eyes at Ziva.

"What's buggin' ya about it, Ziver?" he asked gently, using his paternal nickname for her, cutting to the chase before she could sneak in some more small talk about his family.

She shrugged and folded her arms again, protecting herself. She walked forward slowly, scuffing her feet, watching her shoes slide over the concrete floor.

"I suppose I am—conflicted," she said slowly, figuring out how to vocalize it. She stopped and looked up, her feet in a near perfect ballet stance. "He is…so ready to have children. I am," Ziva faltered. "Scared," she decided—simply; honestly. "It frightens me, Gibbs."

Her hair, in its ponytail, swung as she moved her head, her eyes searching his. He leaned back in his chair, looking right back at her. He sensed there was more—and she was finding it difficult to get out, so he studied her, and he waited, letting her slowly figure out what she needed to say. Because maybe she just needed to say it out loud, and work through it—harness the emotion.

She knew he was going to keep his silence, and so she forced herself to plow on.

"Had I stayed in Israel, I never would have had them. I do not think the opportunity would have come up, even if…even if I had spent time thinking about it—which I did not. I was Mossad to the bone, Israeli from the bottom of my heart, and I was a woman second," Ziva moved her lips, thinking about it. Her brow knit together. "The idea of having a child there, I cannot fathom—after I watched my sister blown to bits? Seen childhood companions killed, and known more broken families than whole ones—including my own?"

She pointed to herself, her eyes hot and intense on his.

"There were years and years where the thought, even the fantasy, of a child—a _family,_ it never crossed my mind," she explained, "and then I came here. And I found," she stopped, and lifted her eyes up. "I found," her voice shook. "I found people who were trustworthy, and honorable and stable—you, Gibbs, and McGee, and Abby," she sighed, a smile touching her lips. "Tony," she murmured fondly. "And Tony."

Gibbs snorted.

"Took you long enough," he grunted.

She gave him a look, her lips quirking up again, and pushed strands of hair behind her ears, smoothing down the top of her head anxiously.

"When my father died, my last ties to Israel were severed. It was the most—painful blessing," she choked out. "Painful blessing," she repeated, wondering at the words. "It meant…I could move on. Heal, put roots down here, and I finally…when you walked me, when I married him," she stopped abruptly.

"Take your time, Ziva."

"When I married Tony," she said quietly. "I had no doubts. I did not—the cold feet, my feet were warm," she joked lightly. "And after all that has happened, for me to get here, and feel permanent, this idea of kids—it still scares me. It feels uncertain. It is as if I think—I think that it will be ripped away, because it never should have been."

Gibbs nodded, folding his hands in his lap. He leaned forward on his knees, watching her solemnly.

"In Israel, there is no childhood, there is no guarantee. It is different," Ziva said earnestly. "It is different here. I have opportunities. I have security—children that I might have, with Tony, will have a childhood, a backyard that isn't living under the threat of a rocket from the territories but it is still," she held her hand to her heart, "daunting."

Gibbs cleared his throat.

"You want kids, Ziva?" he asked bluntly, forcing her to really think about the answer.

Her eyes were wide, attentive, when she looked at him, hardly thinking about it.

"Yes," she said, almost surprising herself with how readily she answered. "I—I do."

"You sure you're not just worried 'cause it's _DiNozzo's_ children?" Gibbs quipped.

Ziva laughed lightly.

"It is not that," she fired back confidently. "No, it is not him, it is me, all me," she murmured, coming forward. She put her hand on the edge of his worktable and looked at him sideways, words bubbling to her lips that she had kept in confidence for years. She took a slow, thoughtful breath. "Jenny and I talked about them once. Kids. In Cairo, we thought we would be killed, so we spilled our guts…she did not want them. She had a near pathological fear of having children, did you know that…Gibbs? She feared how they would reflect on her, make her think about herself."

Ziva watched Gibbs for his reaction, and he looked down at his hands, thinking about Jen. It was all so long ago—_Jen_. Losing Jen had been hard, just plain old difficult, and he thought about it with detachment sometimes. He nodded, thinking of Kelly, and of how it used to stress Shannon out when she thought she set a bad example, or disappointed their daughter.

Children were innocent, unwitting judges of who their parents _were_.

"Valid point," Gibbs conceded, looking up at Ziva. He put his hand on his knee at an angle and shrugged. He started to speak, stopped, and sat still. And then, he started again: "Kids change it all, Ziva," he said frankly. "You aren't the same after 'em."

Ziva nodded, clinging to his words. Her palm flattened against his blue print and they were both silent for a moment.

"There is so much to consider," she said, a faraway look in her dark eyes. He looked at her narrowly, and she kept her eyes on his shelves and toolbox over to the side. "I do not think I would stay with NCIS once I had children," she admitted finally.

His brows went up, and he tilted his head. She smirked, aware of his surprised glare, and she shrugged simply.

"Mossad was my duty; my love of country made occupation. I love NCIS. I do. But when I was a child…I loved my mother. And I loved that she was a constant in my life, always there, always present," Ziva looked at Gibbs fiercely. "And I do not want to put myself in the line of fire. Both parents cannot be a soldier—and maybe I have been a soldier too long."

Gibbs nodded slowly, thinking about it; mulling it over. He didn't want to lose Ziva. He'd been wary of the whole damn relationship when they started it under his nose, and he'd had the same vague problems with them getting married, but it had all been fine; almost nothing had changed. He agreed with Ziva on some level; he didn't think he could comfortably make decisions regarding the two of them if he knew they both needed to be home to the same child.

It was ultimately Ziva's prerogative, but—

"You askin' me to choose between you two?" he asked, lighthearted, grinning a little.

"No," she breathed out, laughing. "No, the last time I did so I did not come out the victor."

Gibbs shook his head sternly.

"That's different," he said curtly. "I left you in Israel to remind you who you could trust. Not because I like him better."

"I know," she demurred quietly. She lifted her shoulders carelessly. "It was nearly ten years ago." She held up her left hand and pointed to the diamond wedding band, shaking her head so her hair danced again. "I did not imagine this."

He gave her a skeptical look, but said nothing. He sighed and stood up, walking over to the shelves and pulling a bottle of bourbon down. She refused his silent offer of a drink, but he poured himself one, and leaned against the counter, and gave her a firm glare.

"Ask what you came to ask, Ziva," he told her gruffly—but it was a kind gruffness, and she swallowed hard, steeling herself for it.

She held out her hands, stepping closer.

"Is it worth it?" she asked candidly. Her eyes burned into his. "Life is such a gamble," she burst out tensely. "You gambled and you lost, Gibbs, and I—I do not think I would survive what you survived. Is it worth it?" she asked again. She stepped closer, a touch of desperation sparkling in her eyes. "Is it _worth_ it?"

He looked at her for a long, long time—it felt like an eternity—with an unreadable, stone cold look in his own eyes. He held his bourbon in his hand and swirled it.

"Ziva."

He said her name confidently, softly, and it seemed as loud as a siren in the dark basement.

"I wouldn't trade her eight years in my life…for _anything_."

He smiled sadly and looked away, lifting the bourbon to his lips. She watched him swallow, watched him remember.

"But Gibbs," she pleaded. "It must have hurt more than anything to lose her," she came closer, touching his shoulder, gripping him like a lost child. "Your daughter," she reminded him. "How—how can I take the risk?"

His jaw clenched, and a muscle in his temple jumped, but he downed the bourbon and turned to her, nudging her aside and opening a drawer. He pulled out a cardboard box full of some of Kelly's drawings, and a hair ribbon or two, and the little Strawberry Shortcake doll, and pictures. He handed a picture of Kelly to Ziva, his eyes lingering on her smile and her bright blue eyes, and the yellow dandelion tucked behind her ear.

He let Ziva look for a moment, and when she raised he eyes to him, stunned, he shrugged.

"She made me happy," he said hoarsely. "Took me…a long time to realize the happiness of those years didn't mean less when she died. Didn't go away."

Ziva looked back down at the picture in her hands, feeling an overwhelming mixture of things—she wanted this, she knew she wanted it, to tuck a little girl or boy into bed or spend a day at the park just enjoying a _family_.

"You are saying," she said slowly, holding up Kelly's picture, "that you—if you knew how it would end, you would do it again? Would you, Gibbs?"

He thought his jaw was going to fail him and not move, but even to his surprise, he answered immediately, completely sure of himself—and it was the first time he'd ever really admitted it.

"_Yes_."

He was emphatic, and he had no doubt. He had made mistakes before Kelly, and so many more in the haze of pain that came with losing her—but damned if that little girl hadn't made him twice the man he used to be. There was an empathy and an understanding that came with being a parent—a very basic human experience that was utterly life changing.

"Ziva," he said gruffly, taking her shoulders. He lowered his head to look her square in the eye, determined. "You ask Vance. Hell, ask McGee. You know damn well Tim's life revolves around his son."

"Tim did not grow up like I did."

"No," Gibbs agreed, but shrugged it off. "But it's the same. _It's the same_, Ziva. We have the same fears."

She didn't miss that he used _we_, that he acknowledged he was a parent, too, even if his daughter was taken from years and years ago.

"You want kids, Ziva?" he asked sternly, repeating his earlier question.

"Yes," she answered again, her voice cracking.

"Then _go home_," Gibbs ordered forcefully, squeezing her shoulders tightly.

She understood his unspoken words—_go home_. He was saying—go to Tony; tell him all this stuff. He's the one who needs to know you're scared. He married you. He'll understand—he'll accept it. He'll wait. Gibbs was right; she needed to go home.

Ziva nodded; once slowly, and then once with resolve. She reached up and squeezed his hands in a silent thank-you, and then she broke into a shaky smile, and her eyes glistened—Gibbs winced; he didn't want her to cry. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead paternally, wrapping one arm around her in a hug.

"Nah, Ziva," he muttered gruffly. "You'll do fine," he said.

He leaned back, releasing her, and held her hand in his, arching a brow.

"You really only gotta worry about if you trust DiNozzo with a kid or not," he said wryly.

Ziva grinned contently; optimistically, and laughed again, stronger this time.

"With a child—our child? Yes, I have no doubt DiNozzo can be trusted with a child. He is just a big kid himself," she joked, rolling her eyes a little. She bit her lip and looked over at his plans for McGee's son's tree house. "With the nursery furniture, though," she drawled, arching a brow. She looked back at him. "Gibbs, I need you for that."

He gave her an expression that feigned annoyance, but was clearly full of a sort of sheepish pride. He jerked his head at the stairs.

"Get out," he ordered gruffly. "Go," he said.

She gave his hand one last squeeze and slipped away, obeying him, finally ready to come home and have the talk with Tony that she needed to—and she knew he'd be glad to see her, because he was upset that she was so conflicted, even if he gave her the space she'd obviously wanted.

On the landing, she turned back to see Gibbs looking intently at the picture of Kelly she had left on the counter, and she thought of the Tennyson poem, and she knew he had told the truth—that it was worth it, even if she gambled and lost, and all the people she'd loved and lost came back to her and she knew instinctively that she wouldn't erase their love just to erase the pain, and she left Gibbs and went home—and she decided she wanted a boy.

* * *

-_so, Tiva, even though Tony doesn't appear. And you can decide to your personal fancy who you want the mother of McGee's unnamed son to be. I do think, in my personal headcanon, that Ziva would leave NCIS if she had children. Tony loves NCIS too much to go, but Ziva is much more flexible in that respect. And I do think she'd want to be, not necessarily a stay at home mom, but a very, very available, involved mother. Just me. _

_-Alexandra  
story #126_


End file.
